I'm still in the same place. Haven't moved. Stuck. All the roommates where I'm staying either moved out or are out of the country. That's a good deal if you're renting one room and getting the whole place to yourself. I'm happy to take up some space here for a little bit. I do what I can. In that respect, I'm basically a philanthropist. The corner of the kitchen looks like a touring bike threw up in it.
I made tacos. I'm not a good chef, but I can mix stuff with rice and put it in a flour tortilla. I can also help try to kill a bottle of vodka. I'm falling into a rhythm. I can almost put together a sort of itinerary.
I know I ought to hit the road. This has devolved into a people-trip with some annoying bicycle riding thrown in. But when I look at the weather report and see some kind of rain every single day, it doesn't inspire me to load up my bicycle again. "You know I'm going to stay here for a week." I mentioned this casually between shots and tacos. She claims that she did already know this. Good. I don't feel like I'm wearing out my welcome yet, so I can hover around town in my party socks until I get the inspiration to see what the rest of the country looks like. Soon enough. Sharing a bed has been nice, but it's time to get back into the woods.